It Takes Time

I seem to specialize in stuff: personal stuff, teaching stuff, religious stuff, record-keeping stuff, computer stuff, hobby stuff, necessary stuff, sentimental stuff. No, I haven’t reached hoarder-status yet, but my basement is getting close. Ironically, I am much happier when things are tucked away in their proper place, preferably organized, alphabetized, color coded, and out of sight. But life is messy and in a constant state of flux with the ebb and flow of family, memories, and personal time so, long ago, I decided to declutter when I could, forgive the mounting stuff in the meantime, and focus most of my energy on relationships. Technically, I suppose, this means I have been frustrated with my surroundings for all but about 15 minutes of my adult life and in a state of growing trauma since 2004.

 

Lately, however, I have been viewing stuff from a different perspective. It has been both bittersweet and comforting to look through Mom and Dad’s things, evoking memories, and stumbling across new little pieces of their stories. It’s like touching them again, reconnecting; spending a few precious moments in their presence while life holds its breath. Then time starts up again and I slip back into the busy-ness of everyday.

 

Yet, while the sifting process has been comforting, the sight of the final pile that was ready to take back to Mom’s house for family to sort through left me sad. It seemed to echo the size of the emptiness I felt. Is that all that’s left of Mom and Dad; an empty shell of stuff? Is that all that we each amount to? We can’t take it with us, so what’s the point? Why do we give stuff such value? Is it wrong? And why am I grieving over this? Perhaps it is because, aside from the few treasures those of us who are left behind each pick out for ourselves to add to our own piles of stuff, we will have to let go of much of it and that feels like letting go of Mom and Dad…again.

 

I am glad for this opportunity to slowly sift and sort through things, though, touching them once again and letting the memories wash through me. It allows a gradual movement from emptiness to healing; a chance to connect, remember, and either repurpose it with value for my own life or gently let it go to someone else who will treasure it for their use. I have also come to acknowledge that the pile of things, big or small, with which we surround ourselves in the messy course of living is there to serve us while we’re here; no more, no less. If it is meaningful for someone else after we die, great; if not, at least it was there for us when we needed it. And that’s enough. I guess it has to be.